


The Blades: Season 1

by quinndk



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Everyone Is Gay, Gay Male Character, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Male Friendship, Male Slash, Original Character(s), Queer Themes, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Slash, Spies & Secret Agents, Superheroes, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-09-07 20:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinndk/pseuds/quinndk
Summary: Our world is in danger. But hey, no biggie. Just leave it to The Blades, a dysfunctional team of handsome warriors with extraordinary abilities.There’s Eoin, a demon hunter from a medieval fantasy world; Silas, a gunslinging cowboy who literally moonlights as a werewolf; and Captain Alpha, a superhero, a cocktail lover, and a bit of a bastard. Then there’s the newest member, Grey, your typical aimless young millennial who happens to be a deadly covert spy. It’s just a coincidence that they all happen to be gorgeous and into guys.As a rising tide of supernatural enemies threaten the world, it’s up to The Blades to put a stop to them. An urban fantasy adventure with a cast of hot queer men, if you’re into that kind of thing. [M/M Slash]





	1. Prologue

_ _

_"Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes."_

_-Carl Jung_

**Characters**

**Grey**, trained from a young age in the art of espionage, stealth, and hand-to-hand combat. A serious badass on the field, an awkward millennial everywhere else. Has a screwed up past that informs his current neuroses. He's trying his best, though. Please root for the poor guy. Up until he was recruited by The Blades, he didn't think magic and monsters and other worlds existed. His wrongness continues to haunt him.

**Eoin**, a disgraced knight who became a demon hunter. From a medieval fantasy world where dragons, monsters, and witches aren't a big deal. Wields a magic sword. Doesn't love conversation. Highly protective and loyal, but only if he warms up to you. (He won't.) Doesn't think his name is spelled weird even though it's pronounced 'Owen'. Oh, and he has a metal arm.

**Silas**, a cowboy from a world that's permanently stuck in the Wild West era, yeehaw. He's also a werewolf, which he's pretty okay with, except for all the shirts it ruins. Decent cook and (according to him) a fantastic lover. Has perfect aim and isn't humble about it. Will charm the pants off you as long as you don't touch his hat.

**Captain Alpha**, the most powerful superhero from a world full of people with awesome powers and questionable spandex outfits. However, a Very Bad Thing happened, and now he's slumming it as a Blade. Enjoys a cocktail or two or ten. Permanently hungover. A bit of a bastard. Doesn't know his own strength, so don't shake his hand.

**Forward**, the weird extradimensional entity who guides and mentors the Blades. Think of it as Charlie from Charlie's Angels, if Charlie was a collection of spooky disembodied voices emanating from a crystalline structure in the subterranean chamber of an enchanted library.

**Prologue**

Ten minutes until everyone dies, Marek decides.

They'll be robbed first, of course. A swanky charity ball in a fancy museum in the heart of the city's wealthiest district? Yeah, at least one of these stuffed shirts has to be packing a black card. But the orders are clear on what the priority is - kill and leave no survivors. No problem. He and his men are packing enough heat to ensure a successful outcome.

Marek grins. The payday for this is going to be huge.

He knows he doesn't quite look the part of a wealthy philanthropist. What was that saying about lipstick on a pig? Still, he and his men made an effort to blend in, rented tuxedos and all. One lady thought he was security and pointed out a suspicious looking man. Someone in a Stetson was hogging all the shrimps. Marek lied and said he'd look into it. He didn't know what kind of jackoff would wear a cowboy hat to a black-tie event but it wasn't his damn problem.

Marek taps his earpiece and tells his men to put their watches on a timer. They'll start the robbing in seven minutes, the shooting in ten. One thing he learned as a mercenary was that unless everyone was on the same page, the job wasn't getting done.

The man in the cowboy hat strolls by. He's dressed like an old Sergio Leone flick: long brown duster, beaten blue western shirt, a red kerchief around his neck. His scruffy face is tanned golden brown, complimenting a shit-eating grin and playful, dark eyes. Their shoulders brush as he passes.

"Pardon me, sir," the cowboy says, his southern drawl like honey. "Awful crowded in here." Marek only responds with a grunt.

He checks his watch. The countdown grows closer. He pats the reassuring weight of the gun in his breast pocket. Makes eye contact with some of his men in the crowd. The ballroom's attendees are oblivious. Good.

The seconds tick away. 6:55... 56... 57...

Marek digs into his tuxedo jacket but freezes before he can bring out his weapon. A man in an alcove above the dance floor watches him with cold eyes. A man he's never seen before, tall and powerful with a scar bisecting his right eyebrow. His outfit is chainmail and leather, with bulky gauntlets over his hands. There's something strapped onto his back.

A sword and shield.

The lights blink once before the museum plunges into darkness. Marek's gasp is joined by other startled voices scattering the building. Confusion throttles the next few moments.

"Hey, boss? Boss, you there?" a voice near him asks. "The fuck are we going to do?"

"Yeah, I can't see shit," a second one adds. Marek eventually makes out both of forms, but they're still vague in the unrelenting darkness. Two of his guys, huge as boulders, but scared shitless. Marek bites back his anger. The timing of this little stunt is too good to be true. This has to be some kind of sting. Local police? SWAT? Whoever is behind it will pay with blood.

Through his rage, Marek's eyes rapidly adjust to the darkness. He can make out shapes and people, tuxedos and gowns. His gaze settles on the closest attendee. A young woman dripping in diamonds. She's nervous, grabbing blindly at her dance partner. An ugly thought occurs to Marek as his face splits into a smile. What's easier than stealing and killing in a blacked-out room?

Before he can put the idea to action, a figure comes hurtling through the darkness. Marek hears it before he sees it, a swooshing noise of taut fabric against polished wood, and then he realizes someone in a dark stealth suit is sliding down the stairwell banister toward them. With balletic, lethal grace the figure launches off the end of the banister and hooks his legs around the neck of the nearest merc. The figure twirls, using the momentum to strike a second merc across the back of his head so hard it drops him. The first merc struggles as lean but surprisingly strong thighs close around his windpipe. The figure grabs the edge of a wall and smashes the man's head into the stairwell banister. The fight - if you can even call it one - is over in less than six seconds.

Marek grabs his gun but the figure is on him before he can blink. He attempts a shot but the hand around his wrist brings his aim skyward. The gunshot is startlingly loud. The room reacts with panicked screams.

Unexpectedly, the lights blink back on, bringing Marek face-to-face with the figure. A male, slender, and surprisingly young; Marek can tell even though his eyes are shielded by nightvision goggles. His skin is clear and dewy and his thick hair falls over his forehead in a dark wave. The stealth suit is midnight black with blue accents, and tight against the young man's lean body. Like some kind of modern, high-tech spy.

"Who the fuck are-" is all Marek can get out before the spy disarms him with a flurry of strikes, brings a sharp knee into his stomach, then a roundhouse kick to his face. He only barely sees the marble floor before it hits his face, turning his whole world into a painful burst of kaleidoscopic light.

People are running. High heels are flung off. There's a stampede toward the exits. Marek is only faintly aware that the spy has disappeared. He struggles to his feet, head still hammering from the well-placed kick. Fists curl at his sides. When he gets his hands around that slim little neck...

"Gentlemen, please," a familiar, honey-voiced man says from the middle of the ballroom. He's surrounded on all sides by mercenaries. Now that the attendees have fled, the cowboy is their sole focus. That doesn't seem to scare him, though. He addresses the circle like they've been arguing in a bar about hockey. "We can settle this without anyone getting hurt. Or me getting hairy."

Marek's men take out their weapons. Good, he thinks. Show this asshole what he gets for trying to act big.

"Now, I hate to see a man draw a gun on me. Let alone a whole herd of 'em. Tell you what, I'm going to give you gents one more chance to walk away. This is me being polite."

"Fuck you, Buffalo Bill," one of them spits. Laughter follows.

The cowboy starts to laugh, too, and then reveals two revolvers, one in each hand. He unleashes round after round of perfectly aimed shots. Marek recoils, expecting every last one of his men fall dead. Instead, each bullet manages to pierce their held guns with loud sparks of shattering metal. Broken bits of steel and aluminum clatter at their feet. A stunned silence.

Grinning, the cowboy blows the smoke off his empty revolvers and - with unnecessary flourish - returns them to the holsters hidden by his duster. "Beautiful! Now we can all play fair."

A merc rushes him, screaming in fury. The cowboy dodges, letting him run right into the high kick of the stealth suited spy.

"It's almost like we practiced that," the cowboy says.

"It's almost like you're letting me do all the work," the spy jabs playfully.

More mercs close in on them. The spy tenses into a defensive stance. "What do you think. Beast mode?"

"Nah," the cowboy says, cracking his knuckles and loosening his shoulders, "These yokels ain't worth ruining my clothes over."

Marek summons the strength to stand, fighting through the throbbing hell of his injuries. He can't believe what he's seeing. His men are supposed to be pure muscle. Yet the slender spy effortlessly fights, feints, and weaves through the crowd untouched, his combat technique an elegant dance. The cowboy beside him isn't quite as spry, but he's throwing wide punches and pistol-whipping skulls like a pro. Are these two actually working together? No. Ridiculous. Impossible.

The anger inside him burns until it becomes volcanic.

Marek sees a forgotten gun lying several feet away on the floor. It's still whole, not shattered to pieces like the weapons of his men. It must be his, must have been kicked away carelessly after the spy disarmed him. He'll make them pay for that. Limping, Marek retrieves the gun and takes aim at the troublesome duo. He'll kill the spy first, riddle his body with as many bullets as it takes to still his rage. Then he'll blow away the cowboy's cocky smirk. He waits for an opening in the fight. There are too many bodies in the way. His jaw sets, growing impatient. If he has to shoot one of his own men first to get the bastard, so be it. A few more breathless seconds pass and his men finally get out of the line of fire. The next moment happens in snapshots: Marek targets the back of the spy's pretty little head, clicks back the hammer, squeezes the trigger, waits for the satisfying wet crunch of a skull being blown apart...

With a loud crack and a spark, the bullet ricochets off a silver blur that slashes the air before his gun. The flattened stub of metal falls uselessly to the floor. Stunned, Marek realizes that the man who was watching him from the alcove - the one in leather and chainmail - is now standing several feet away. His sword, gripped between two gauntleted fists, is etched with ancient runes and symbols. An ethereal glow emanates from within the blade.

The man holding it glowers at him with uncommon ferocity. Though he sports a fashionable beard and modern hairstyle, he has the aura of a man from another time, perhaps even another world. The closest thing Marek's mind can approximate is a crusader or a knight. Fucking hell, he thinks. How many more of these freaks are going to pop up? He fires the gun. The knight swings, intercepting the bullet. Marek fires again and again. Each bullet zings off the sword until the trigger clicks empty. With a ferocious battle cry the knight cleaves the gun clean in half. Marek's mouth goes dry as he releases the now useless weapon. The knight draws the blade back for the killing blow but the spy suddenly intervenes, throwing himself in front of Marek's cowering form. The knight halts an inch before hitting him.

"Eoin, stop!"

"Get out of my way, boy!"

Fools. The both of them. He's killed men for making lesser mistakes. Marek slips the Bowie knife from the sheath around his lower back, angles it toward the distracted spy's neck, then he jabs-

-but the spy catches his hand with the reflexes of a goddamn ninja. He shoves his knee against Marek's arm, forcing him to release the knife and dislocating his shoulder with a loud pop. Marek screams like a wild animal trapped in a snare.

"What do you think you're doing?" the knight grunts at the spy with a voice as deep as a canyon. He's British, or at least sounds it. "I could've killed you."

"But you didn't, so relax," the spy casually shoots back.

The two continue to squabble as Marek lies in a crumpled heap on the floor, his agonizing injuries draining his ability to stay conscious. But he smiles. He knows he and his men have one more option, a failsafe to put an end to all of this. Something the whole damn city will remember. And it'll take a hell of a lot more than a sword and shield to stop it.

* * *

Grey dodges a punch from a blindly raging merc and swings him to the floor with a tightly executed flying scissor takedown. He readjusts his askew goggles as he hops back to his feet. "We're dealing with humans, remember? This is a no-kill mission."

Eoin bludgeons his shield against the face of an advancing thug. "And?"

"And," Grey replies, crushing his elbow into the stomach of another goon and flipping him onto his back, "You were a second away from putting Marek in a body bag."

Two more goons get brought down by Eoin's shield. "I was saving your life."

"Do I look like I need to be saved?" The words are barely heard above the shocked cry of a merc receiving the sparkly end of Grey's taser.

"One of us was trained from birth to slay centaurs, assassinate witches, and topple baby-eating ogres." Eoin trips a grunt with his sword. "And one of us wasn't."

"Just because I don't look like someone's George R. R. Martin fanart doesn't mean I can't take care of myself."

A frown creases the dark stubble on Eoin's face. "One day I'll figure out these inane references of yours."

"Please don't. It's more fun this way."

"Pay more attention to your surroundings, boy. I won't always have your back."

"Speaking of which, I think the talking Stetson hat needs our help."

A merc has Silas in a solid chokehold while a second one pummels him in the chest and stomach. Miraculously, his hat hasn't moved an inch. The one who's beating him suddenly pitches forward and collapses as Eoin strikes him with the blunt end of his sword. Spitting blood, Silas nods at his two teammates. "Thought you two had gone out to pick daisies. Little ol' me was getting worried."

"Stay back," the merc keeping him in a chokehold says.

"Or what?" Eoin twirls his sword once, twice, three times.

"Or this." The merc reveals a device in his free hand, his thumb hovering over a red button.

Grey instinctively grabs Eoin's arm. "Whoa. Hold on, stop."

"Better do what the pretty boy says," the merc snarls. "You think we didn't have an insurance plan? You think Marek didn't have this place rigged with enough C4 to blow it into orbit?"

"Let's all just relax. Find some common ground, you know? No one wants to be crushed to death by fiery debris," Grey says, fully aware of how stupid he sounds. "Just put down the thingamajig and let Silas go."

A pause. "Let who go?"

Grey's tone flattens. "The cowboy."

"Me," Silas confirms with a strangled voice.

"What, you bozos want a head start back to the cosplay convention or something?" He dissolves into a fit of laughter and abruptly pushes Silas into the arms of his teammates. "Fuck it, go ahead. See if you can run fast enough."

Eoin winds back his sword. "We will do no such thing."

"And we are _not _cosplayers," Grey adds firmly.

"Everyone holding the purse strings got away," Silas says, throat still rough from the choke. "You lost, buddy boy."

Grey nods. "Why destroy this place just because your plan went to shit?"

The merc takes a few careful steps backward. His thumb lightly brushes the device's button. He's savoring this. "We're grunts for hire. We do this stuff 'cause we get paid."

Grey becomes aware of a great rumbling in the distance.

"So, Jason Bourne Jr., how about you, Lancelot, and Sheriff Woody over there get on your knees and make peace with whoever you freaks worship. Because you ain't getting out of this alive."

"We're not the ones this is going to end badly for," Grey says.

"I'm the one with the C4 remote. Who's gonna stop me?"

The rumbling grows louder. It's impossible to ignore now. The entire building quakes, like a freight train is barreling right toward the museum. The wall behind the merc explodes in a thunderous storm of jagged brick and cement. Impossibly, a man walks in from the destruction. He kicks a heavy table that screeches across the marble floor and slams into the merc. The remote goes flying. Grey makes a running leap and catches it before it hits the ground.

"Took you long enough," Silas smirks at the emerging figure.

Captain Alpha appears through a cloud of dust and smoke. God-like is the only appropriate word to describe him. Everything from his wide shoulders and thickly cabled neck to his glass-cutting jaw speaks of a man in peak physical condition. The blue cape attached to his red and gold outfit flutters heroically in the wind. But after a few drunken, wobbly steps toward his teammates, his legs turn to Jello and he collapses.

Silence.

"At least he passed out _after _saving the day," Grey offers. "We're not always that lucky."

Silas pushes the cape aside to reveal an empty fifth of whiskey clutched in one meaty hand. He wriggles the bottle free. Sniffs it. "Wyoming Private Stock? Really? For a man with biceps the size of my head he sure has shit taste in hooch."

Eoin examines the runes along his sword blade. He sees something in their mystical glow. "We are not done yet."

"We ain't? Take a gander, my man," Silas widely gestures at the unconscious mercenaries strewn around the ballroom. "I see a big fat checkmark in our 'win' column."

"What's wrong?" Grey pushes his goggles up to his forehead. His eyes - piercing green and intelligent - search Eoin's stormy expression for meaning. "You've got worryface."

Urgently, Eoin surveys the room. "The one called Marek. Where is he?"

* * *

Marek knows he should have seen this coming. Well, maybe not this, specifically. But the signals of something _wrong_ were there. He'd been hearing whispers the past month that some sort of shadow group was on his tail. Men of his had quit, claiming to have been interrogated and threatened by strangers in weird outfits. He didn't take them seriously.

His black Audi tears through the streets of Toronto. The roads are clear tonight. He'll have to leave the country, again. Get a new set of IDs, again. Recruit and establish a whole new criminal syndicate, again. Just when he was getting up and running. Screw those Village People motherfuckers, he thinks. Whoever the hell they are.

A figure drops onto the road fifty feet away. Marek hits the breaks, tires squealing, his panicked eyes catching glimpses of a long blue cape, arms the size of tree trunks, and red-gold material stretched across a torso bulging with muscles. No, Marek thinks. A goddamn _superhero_? This is officially ridiculous. What's next, a ghost pirate? A vampire robot?

As if on cue, a metal arm slams through his window in an explosion of glass. But the limb doesn't belong to a robot, it belongs to the knight, whose ferocious blue eyes pin Marek with a withering glare. Chrome fingers close around his neck and suddenly he's hauled from his car and onto rough pavement. He tries to stand but the knight's armored boot flattens him against the road. The spy, the cowboy, and the superhero gather next to him. None of this makes any damn sense. They can’t be police. Or feds. Maybe a black ops team that just really loves Halloween?

"What the fuck do you people want?"

"Who hired your company to destroy the museum?" the spy asks as he takes a knee.

Despite the pain of his injuries, Marek smiles. "You think I'd ever tell you?"

The superhero starts to reply but his face becomes a grimace. He clutches his stomach like he's trying to keep it from jumping out of his mouth.

"You're... not seriously going to throw up on me, are you?"

"I need to lie down," the superhero mumbles, swaying slightly.

Marek hears the metal click of a gun. The cowboy has a revolver trained on him. "Hah. You think I'll fall for that? I saw you run out of bullets disarming my men."

The cowboy shoots the pavement an inch away from Marek, who screams. The bullet hole fizzles with smoke. "Jesus!"

"He ain't part of the team, believe it or not. And what kind of gunslinger would I be if I didn't have a spare bullet or two?" The cowboy spins the bullet chamber and replaces the one he just spent.

"Threaten me all you want," Marek says through gritted teeth. "I won't tell you people shit."

Silence, and then the spy cracks a boyish smile. "Well, we thought we'd give you a chance to fess up. But we've already got everything we need." He takes a smartphone out of a compartment from his stealth suit. "Look familiar?"

Every vein in Marek's body freezes. "How did you-"

"I cloned your iPhone a few weeks ago. It's almost insulting how easy it was. You should really close your windows at night, dude."

"You… you can't…"

"Oh, and yet we did," the spy trills. "Not only did we find everything there is to know about your little crime club, we have evidence of all the shit you have your grubby fingers in. The innocent people you blackmailed. The murders you not only committed but covered up. Then there's your list of targets to kill just for the fun of it. You're not a mercenary, you're a psychopath. And it ends tonight."

"Money," Marek sputters, "You want money? I-I'll give you half. I'll give you everything!"

The cowboy tilts his head. "Not much of a negotiator, is he?"

Angry tears spill from Marek's hard, resentful eyes. "I'll kill you," he says directly to the spy. "No, I'll rip you open and make you beg for death! I'm going to enjoy, it too. I'll-"

The knight's sword presses his throat with enough force to ensure that any sudden movement would cut his jugular. "Speak one more word to him I'll mount your severed head upon my blade and feed your festering corpse to the crows."

"Buddy," the superhero groans, "Not while I've got five bourbon mojitos in my stomach."

Police sirens blares in the distance. The cowboy nods to the spy. "What do you say, partner. We done here?"

"I sent everything to CSIS through a spoofed network twenty minutes ago." The spy winks at Marek. "I think we're good."

The sirens grow louder, closer. The knight lifts his boot off Marek's chest and joins the others as they walk away.

"Who are you people?!" he cries after them, no longer able to do anything other than boil helplessly in his defeat.

Of all four men, only the spy turns to acknowledge him. His boyish smile is the last thing Marek sees before the police arrive.


	2. Grey Matter, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the newest and youngest member of The Blades, the stubbornly independent Grey has been having a tough time being taken seriously by his teammates. But as an investigation into a rip in time-space grows increasingly out of control and reveals shocking connections to his past, he realizes there are some tasks he can't do alone...

1.

Greyson ‘Grey’ Liu thinks about how he’d describe himself in a police report. He’d say mid-twenties, male, five-foot-ten with perpetually messy black hair, green eyes, and a complexion like that one key on a piano nobody can reach. He unfolds that morning’s newspaper, ignoring the headline (‘MUSEUM MASS SHOOTING AVERTED BY ANONYMOUS TIPSTERS’) and squints at the accompanying photo (Marek, handcuffed in front of a police cruiser). In the background, you can barely make out four figures, standing in the distance like smudges. They’re the Blades, but only Grey can tell. He faintly traces his outline - his smudge - and wonders if anyone would be able to recognize him through the photo’s haze. Could they see his messy hair, his lanky frame?

Then the bus lurches forward and Grey spills his iced coffee everywhere. Welp, there goes his last two dollars and fifty cents.

“Fucking fuck on a stick,” escapes his mouth. Two elderly women up front shoot him icy glares.

Grey leaves at his stop with soaking wet thighs. Thankfully, it’s only a block and a quick jog to the magic library. He’s still not used to calling it that, but what else can it be called? It's an enchanted building full of books that the Blades use as their headquarters. Eoin, Silas, and Captain Alpha also live there, since filling out a rental application is tough when you’re from another universe.

At his approach, the mystical shroud protecting the library parts like a curtain, a process that still makes the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. The shroud doesn’t necessarily make the building invisible but it does strongly compel any non-Blade passersby to keep passing by.

The building’s interiors are a curious blend of mystical and modern. Some rooms feature domed ceilings and arched doorways, while others favor stark, wall-sized windows with modular furniture. The only commonalities between the spaces are the rows upon rows of books. The collection is vast and surprisingly varied, containing both supernatural tomes and the latest bestsellers. Grey learned a while ago not to think too much about where it all comes from.

“Does anyone have a pair of pants?” Grey calls as he enters from the main doors. The hall continuing from the foyer leads mostly to reading rooms but there are living spaces as well, a dining area, bedrooms, a den, a living room.

“Hello? Pants? Anyone?” He steps into the kitchen where Silas, completely nude, is pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Oh, god! Pants!”

“Hey there, darlin’.”

“Silas, we talked about this. The kitchen is not a clothing optional room.”

The man yawns, scratches his bare ass. The only thing he’s wearing is the elastic band keeping his neck-length, chocolate-colored hair back in a knot. “Hey, I turned hairy last night. Clothes got shredded and I didn’t feel like putting new ones on. It’s not like I have anything you haven’t seen before.”

He doesn’t think Silas looks bad naked, quite the opposite. His build is hearty and rugged and it would take a lesser person than Grey not to admire the play of muscles under the cowboy’s skin. But still. Couldn’t there be a time and place for this?

Silas pours Grey his own mug and takes great interest in the newspaper he’s holding. “Huh, what do we have here? Nice of the ol’ gang to finally get some recognition, even if it looks like we’re the size of ants.”

“We might want to consider how much recognition we actually want. Or need.”

“Pssh. You need to relax, son. You worry too much.”

Grey takes a long sip and smiles ruefully. “I’ll relax when my debit card doesn’t get declined at Starbucks.”

“Hah, that why you paid us a visit? Mooch off our coffee supply? I’ll have you know I got it under lock and key.”

“If I wanted to steal something, it would already be gone. Trust me.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Alph texted me this morning, said I should drop by.”

“I forget you and the Captain have those things that talk to each other. Sharp phones?”

“Smartphones.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. What’d the Cap want you dropping by for?”

“He said Forward wants to talk to me.”

“Ooooh. Sounds like you're in trouble, darlin’.”

“Please.” Grey tries to roll his eyes, but his fingers rhythmically clink the porcelain mug. Forward makes him nervous. Probably because he still doesn’t know what Forward_ is_, exactly. None of the Blades do. “But, um, I don’t suppose I could convince you all to join me? The basement gives me the creeps.”

“Well, your caped buddy is at work. Just left about an hour ago.”

“What about Eoin?”

Silas shrugs his broad shoulders. “Who knows where Mr. Sword ‘n Sorcery goes when he’s off duty. Doesn’t say a word to me unless he wants his eggs over easy.” He considers the stove, hands on his bare hips. “Speaking of which, you look like you could use a good breakfast. Your sister ain’t feeding you?”

“She buys the groceries but I don’t touch them. I can’t afford to pay my half right now.”

Silas gathers pans and utensils from the cupboards. “But she’s your dang sister. Surely that doesn’t matter to her.”

“No,” Grey clinks his mug again, too shy to meet Silas’ questioning gaze. “But it matters to me.”

“Uh huh. I'm guessing she's just as much of a spitfire as you.”

“Trust me, she’s the whole volcano.”

“Hmm. Let’s see if I can remember your usual: eggs scrambled, bacon extra crispy, toast with jam?”

Embarrassed warmth fills Grey’s cheeks. People doing things for him is weird. “You really don’t have to make me breakfast.”

Silas tips the imaginary rim of the hat he’s not wearing. “Where I come from, we look after our own.”

“Well, can you just do me one favor?” He throws an apron at the naked man before he can respond. “Please put that on when you’re frying the bacon.”

2.

After breakfast, Grey wanders around some more until he finds Eoin in the courtyard. He’s cleaning his sword under the shade of a drooping willow tree. The weather is nice today and he looks right at home in the sun-dappled outdoors. Free of his battle uniform, he wears simple slacks, scuffed leather boots, and an off-white cotton shirt that’s laced down the center. His chest is taut and hairy, and lightly sheened with sweat. The sleeve of his good arm is pushed up and Grey can see the thick band of muscle on it, tense with effort. His scarred eyebrow points skyward.

Grey doesn’t know the stories behind Eoin’s various physical nuances - the scars, the prosthetic left arm that looks like it’s made out of Optimus Prime’s spare parts - but they all seem to make sense with the man’s features, which are chiseled and haunted. Trips to the barber are his one concession to this modern, unmagical world. He keeps his beard trimmed and his hair, the color of honey, short and neat. Rough edges aside, Grey finds him handsome, the way men on Harlequin book covers are. He wouldn’t say such a thing to the man, who seems to detest compliments like he’s allergic to them.

“What’s wrong?” Eoin asks without looking up.

“Why would something be wrong?”

“You only come to see us when something’s wrong.”

“That’s not true.” It is true, but he ignores that. “What if I just wanted to, you know, hang out?”

Eoin stops midway down his blade. “_Hang out_?”

Grey takes a seat by the tree, thankful he waited in the kitchen for his pants to dry. “Didn’t people _hang out_ in your world?”

“We had more pressing issues in Zeshaia. Drought. Disease. Harsh weather. Corrupt royals who cared more for riches than the welfare of their people. The blood curses and dragon invasions didn’t have too many of us dancing in the streets either, if I recall.”

Grey blinks. “No hangouts then.”

“No. None.”

Talking to Eoin is challenging on a good day, and it drives his other teammates to half-hearted shrugs. Unless they have a mission on the go and there are logistics to discuss, the man is as impenetrable as a mountain. Though Grey hasn’t been a Blade for very long, he should still know more about Eoin than his name and former occupation. Shouldn’t he?

He clears his throat. “Do you ever miss Zendaya?”

“Zeshaia.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“You must not have been listening when I was describing that troll’s armpit of a world.”

“But there’s got to be people you miss. Family, friends? A special someone?”

Eoin waits a beat, then goes back to cleaning his sword. Sensing a sore spot, Grey timidly digs around his feet for a stone and then flings it to the nearby pond. It skims the surface only once before sinking.

“Hmm. Well if that wasn’t the perfect metaphor for the chat we just had…”

Silence. Grey stares at the unbroken surface of the pond. Perhaps he wishes he was lying face down in it rather than trying to work his way through this conversation. But he's sympathetic to Eoin’s gruffness. Being taken from a place you understood and in which you played an intrinsic role, and then abandoned somewhere new and hopelessly confusing would be an enormous burden on anyone, to say the least.

When the quiet stretches too thin for him to bear, Grey sucks in a breath and tries again. “You want to know something funny? When I left Echelon 7 and went back to what everyone called a ‘normal life’, I just felt… like I wasn’t supposed to be here. You know? Like there was some sort of mistake. I spent ten years of my life, all day every day, training to become a human weapon. And then it stopped. And suddenly I’m standing in line to buy milk at Shoppers Drug Mart? It didn’t make sense to me. To be honest, sometimes it still doesn’t make sense.”

Eoin studies the chrome surface of his blade. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I just want to shoot the shit about how disorienting and chaotic life is. I think anyone in Zeshaia would agree.”

Eoin grunts in bemusement. “You would confuse and irritate the people of my world.”

“Oh, if I had a nickel.” The hardness around Eoin’s eyes and mouth lifts a little, which Grey finds encouraging. “Did you notice I got the pronunciation right this time?”

“Yes. I noticed.”

“Good.”

Their eyes meet again. Eoin’s are particularly blue in the afternoon light. Grey wonders, not for the first time, if the muted curiosity he feels is mutual.

“Um, so, Forward wants to talk to me about something.”

“Hrng. And you don’t want to do it alone.”

"Jeez, you’re awfully perceptive for a man who spends his free time cleaning metal.”

“Your fears are misplaced. Forward cannot hurt you. It doesn’t even have a body.”

“The chorus of eerie disembodied voices aside, it’s actually the long staircase down I don’t like. It’d be nice to have another set of eyes on me in case, I don’t know, a pair of rotting hands suddenly grab my ankles.”

Eoin tilts his chin down. “This concern of yours is real?”

“Up until I met you guys, I didn’t think werewolves or flying men in capes were real.”

“How persistent do you plan on being about this?”

“Very.”

“Where is Captain Alpha?”

“At work, that capitalist scum.”

“How clothed is Silas at the moment?”

“The opposite of a lot.”

Eoin’s mouth becomes a flat line. “You’ve come to me out of sheer desperation, haven’t you?”

“Hah,” Grey finger-guns an affirmative. “And bingo was his name-o.”

3.

Beneath the library is an ancient chamber that can only be accessed by a dark, winding spiral staircase that seems to go on forever and ever. Eoin doesn’t like traversing it any more than the other Blades do, but he can be strong about it for Grey’s sake. As a demon hunter for hire back in Zeshaia, accompanying a less experienced, more vulnerable partner into a forsaken forest or ruins of a haunted castle was an activity he repeated many times. Keeping his emotions in check for the sake of another gradually became second nature. He does not think the same can be said about Grey, however. The younger man is expressive and mobile, unaware (or unafraid) of the fact that every thought passes visibly across his face. At least those hyper-quick reactions of his came in handy during missions. All the Blades have their strengths, but Grey is by the far the fastest and most agile fighter.

His composure outside of the battlefield, on the other hand…

“Is there a spider crawling down my back? I swear I can feel one.”

“There is no such creature on you.”

“Blugh. Please don’t call it a creature.”

“Where I’m from, spiders grow as large as horses. To me they are creatures.”

“Quick question. Do you mind switching out with Silas?”

Their bickering continues as their footsteps and voices echo off the cobblestone walls. It really is like stepping into another world down here. Even the scent of the air is different, ancient and earthy. Grey has that strange device of his out, the slim rectangle of dark glass that he constantly taps and occasionally yells at. One side of it glows with light, which he uses to illuminate their downward path.

“Siri, can you play something happy and light? Something that won’t make me feel like I’m excavating the tomb of a demon king?”

The dark glass, apparently female, replies in a stilted voice. “Sorry, I didn’t get that.”

“Demon kings do not have tombs,” Eoin says sternly. “Their bodies are eviscerated and devoured by their offspring.”

“Noted. Siri, can you note that?”

“Sorry,” she answers, “I didn’t see anything in your Notes app.”

They arrive in the stone chamber, a circular room that wouldn’t look out of place in the ancient structures Eoin used to raze for covens and faerie nests. The jagged crystal obelisk at the chamber’s center, about as tall and wide as a man, hums with sky-colored light.

“Um, hello. It’s me. Reporting for duty,” Grey says, saluting with two fingers. He’s nervous but trying to hide it. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Linear time does not exist to us,” says the collection of spectral voices known as Forward. “Therefore, you are not late.”

Eoin still can’t figure out where the voices come from. There are many, both male- and female-sounding, and they seem to echo within his head rather than emanate from the obelisk. During their first encounter Forward introduced itself as, quote, ‘an extradimensional entity tasked with guiding your development as warriors’. As far as explanations went, it was awfully vague, which felt deliberate. Deepening the mystery was the fact that it referred to itself with plural pronouns but insisted - gently, mind - that the Blades refer to it as, well, a singular ‘it’. All he really knows is that Forward was responsible for bringing the Blades together and creating this enchanted building as their center of operations.

“You’ve brought the demon hunter,” Forward says neutrally.

“He practically begged to come with me,” Grey sighs, then turns and sticks his tongue out. Eoin’s eyes flare, but the half-smile tugging the corner of Grey’s mouth stops him from saying anything. He’s a strange one, that boy.

“We find your presence fortuitous, demon hunter. You can accompany Grey on this task.”

Grey’s half-smile disappears. “Accompany who on a what?”

“We detect abnormally porous time-space in the location of your previous mission.”

Eoin steps forward with a dark expression. “You’re not saying the museum is sitting on another multigate?”

“That is what we suspect, demon hunter.”

“A which?” Grey asks. “Sorry, I’m like a million miles away right now. What’s going on?”

“Allow us to enlighten you. A multigate is a rip in time-space. In effect, they create passageways to other worlds in the multiverse.”

“You mean those portals you all came in from?” Grey looks at Eoin, who nods. “Got it. Caught up now. Thanks.”

“Your world’s time-space is still damaged from the arrivals of your teammates.”

“Before you joined us,” Eoin began as he circled the obelisk, “The majority of our missions were centered on multigates. Where they were, what came out, and how we might close them.”

Grey scratches the back of his head. “Well, it sounds like you guys have more way experience than me. I do the street-level stuff, remember? The spying, the stealing, the backflips. Multigates aren’t in my portfolio.”

The crystal’s light pulses. Angrily, almost. “This Earth is your world, Grey. Every open multigate exposes the fragility of the systems holding your existence in place. As of now, they are in your portfolio.”

Grey considers the weight of this, saying nothing. Eoin watches him out of the corner of his eye.

“That said,” Forward continues, “This next task is uniquely suited to your skills. You need to look deeper into who hired Marek’s company that night and determine what they are after. If they are aware that multigates exist, we have a considerable trial ahead of us.”

“I haven’t been able to find anything concrete on Marek’s benefactor yet, but-”

“Then try harder. The Blades cannot risk the multigates becoming public knowledge. Your people will exploit them, plunging all of time-space into an unending, torturous state of unlife.”

It takes Grey a moment to respond. “Okay. Great.”

“The connections you have in this world are valuable. Use them to your advantage.”

“I would be honored to assist with this task,” Eoin says as he draws his shoulders back and subtly puffs out his chest. He catches Grey rolling his eyes.

“Very good, demon hunter. This is sensitive work. You will be the shield at Grey’s back.”

“Uh, do I get a say in this? Because I can manage a little snooping on my own. No offense.”

“Perhaps Forward would be interested in hearing that you would have died during our last mission if I hadn’t saved you,” Eoin remarks, every word pointed and tight.

“Forward would _not_ be interested in hearing that,” Grey volleys back, “because it’s not true.”

“It is entirely true.”

“It’s an exaggeration of the truth.”

If an extradimensional entity is at all capable of clearing its throat, Forward manages an approximation of it. “If that is all, Blades, consider this task assigned.”

The glow disappears from the crystal, stranding the pair in the chamber’s dull darkness.

4.

Here we go again, Grey thinks as he charges down the busy downtown street. Another day of being treated like he’s not capable. Like he’s the team’s kid brother. Blurgh.

Eoin follows at his heel like a guard dog. Grey at least managed to coax him out of that Renaissance-y shirt and into a Henley, dark sunglasses, and leather jacket. The magic library is stocked with ‘normal guy’ clothes for occasions when the Blades have to be inconspicuous, but it usually takes some cajoling on Grey’s part to get them appropriately dressed.

“At least tell me who they are,” Eoin says as they weave through the sidewalk traffic.

Grey raises a finger. “Let’s get one thing clear. You’re not going to talk to them. You’re not even going to look at them. The only thing you’re doing is sitting as far away as possible and sipping a cappuccino. Okay?”

“That was actually three things. Four if you include the cappuccino.”

“And now he’s a comedian.”

“I am not here to partake in social niceties. I am keeping you safe. And I must know who you’ll be speaking with before we go into that café.”

Grey stops, breathes, squares his shoulders. “Alright, listen. I’m meeting two of my former colleagues from Echelon 7. Mateo and Margot, twins. My age. They’re civilians now but they still have roots in the intelligence community. I think. It’s been a while since we talked.”

“They’ll know who hired Marek and his company?”

“Probably not. But I’m working blind right now and they were the biggest gossips of everyone I trained with. I might get a few leads out of them. Better than nothing, right?”

“How dangerous are these twins?”

“Mateo runs a vape startup and Margot is an Instagram influencer. I know those words don’t make any sense to you, but trust me, they’re not dangerous. You might as well have stayed home.”

They resume their path toward the café. Grey’s a little less tense now, but the feeling of being infantilized by his own teammates still gnaws at him. He tells himself to let it go for now. Can’t let a bad mood ruin his focus.

“Tell me more about this Echelon 7,” Eoin says behind him. Smartly, he’s keeping his distance. “You’ve mentioned it before.”

“Do you want the short or long explanation?”

“Tell me everything you can.”

“It was a top-secret black ops project that turned teenagers into the deadliest covert field operatives on North American soil. They trained us in all flavors of espionage: stealth, surveillance, infiltration, theft, information security breaching. We learned how to render men unconscious barehanded and without a sound. It was co-run by American and Canadian intelligence entities but both countries will deny it ever existed. It was shuttered five years ago.”

Eoin looks at him. “And the short explanation?”

“Spy school.”

“Your own country did this with adolescents? Why?”

“Because we were old enough to understand discipline and young enough that no one would suspect what we really were.” If there is pain in his voice, he hopes he’s the only one to hear it. Eoin remains silent the rest of the way.

They arrive at the café and, after a renewed bout of bickering, Eoin grudgingly takes a seat at the far edge of the room while Grey commandeers an empty table near the entrance.

The twins enter not long after; Mateo all angular and handsome with a fresh fade and a tailored blazer, and Margot in a summery dress, expensive boots, and a curtain of shiny, auburn hair. They are not precisely identical, being fraternal siblings, but they are synchronized in a way that Grey and his older sister Thea have never been. The duo could be a bit much at times during their spy days, but he was lacking for companions and they found him amusing enough, and so they fostered an unlikely friendship.

After a round of hugs, hellos, and how are yous, Grey wonders how to bring up the business with the museum and Marek’s company. Ease into it first? Or just bluntly ask? Margot, always the chatterbox, makes the decision for him.

“This is so weird seeing you again. Weird but great. You’re super cute. You really grew into your face.”

“Uh, thanks. Listen, I-”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Not right now, but-”

“Mateo and I know this super handsome sales exec. He’s into younger guys.”

“I’m not really looking for-”

“Ugh, Grey, I love this. Don’t you love this? Your text was such good timing. I’ve been thinking, lately-”

Mateo nudges her, his grin easy and lopsided. “Forgive her, she’s new to this kind of thing.”

“Shush! I mean that I’ve been wanting to reminisce about our Echelon 7 days. Remember those god awful call signs they gave us?”

“I sure do, Dandelion,” her brother replies. He prods her nose with his finger, which she slaps away.

“Oh please, Kestrel. I don’t even know what a Kestrel is.”

“It’s a hunting bird,” Grey says. It’s the first sentence he’s managed to finish.

“Thanks, Spectre,” Mateo arches an eyebrow, forcing Grey to recall the blush of humiliating attraction he felt when they first met. It wasn’t reciprocated. “Man, that call sign was badass. How did you end up with it?”

Margot sighs, her voice light with appreciation. “Because his enemies never saw him coming. Isn’t that right, Spectre?”

Memories of gymnastics and fight training flicker by. Grey shakes them off and hopes his laugh sounds sincere. He tries easing back into his original topic, but Margot again plows through before he can form the words.

“Not to be that girl, but do you have an Instagram? We should follow each other. I have a lot of gay followers.”

“That’s, um, nice-”

“Hey, you smoke, man?” Mateo interrupts, “I don’t know if you heard, but Vapefully Yours is really taking off. I could hook you up.”

“No one cares about Vapefully Yours,” Margot says, her smile still alarmingly sunny, “Grey, here, get out your phone. My handle is m-a-r, underscore-”

“More people care about my business than you hawking diet pills for a couple of hundred bucks, okay?”

Margot’s disposition curdles. “They’re not diet pills, they’re _appetite suppressants.”_

“So?”

“So, they’re GMO free!”

Right, Grey thinks. He’ll do this the direct way. He drops that day’s newspaper onto the table. The twins snap to it in perfect unison.

“Huh,” Mateo says after a beat, “Do people still read newspapers?”

“Do either of you know anything about this?”

“Oh, I know, right?” Margot’s amber eyes go wide as she clutches her chest. “The Royal Ontario Museum was almost blown up with all those people in it. So scary. I posted about it this morning. See?”

She holds up her phone, which displays a heavily filtered picture of Margot in a sports bra sipping a bottled green juice. Under the caption ‘Thoughts & prayers :(:(:(’ is a like count that notches over one hundred thousand.

Grey drops the volume of his voice. “No, I mean, have you heard any whispers about who was behind the attack?”

“It’s all there in the article, isn’t it?” Mateo squints at the page. “Marek Ranskahov, notorious criminal and mercenary leader, Russian as fuck, blah blah. Looks like they finally nailed his ass.”

Grey shakes his head. “Marek and his crew didn’t orchestrate the attack. They were hired hands.”

“Hired by who?” Margot says a little stiffly. She tosses a glance to her brother, who only shrugs.

Grey can’t help but feel a little deflated. “Exactly what I want to know.”

“Sorry bud, but we’ve been out of the spy game since Echelon 7 was decommed.” Mateo drums his fingers against the table and notices the menu for the first time. “Hey, they’ve got affogato here.”

“Why are you curious about this anyway?” Margot asks without looking up from her phone.

Grey watches both siblings carefully. Why do they now seem so distracted?

“Yeah, man. I thought you were a civvie. Hmm, a café romano sounds good.”

Margot’s perfectly plucked brows shoot to the ceiling. “Wait, don’t tell me you became a free agent. That field’s crowded enough as it is.”

“No,” Grey starts, but finds it inexplicably difficult to come up with a cover. He can’t tell the twins about the Blades and the magic library and the talking crystal. He was good at this sort of thing as a trainee, but now he’s woefully out of practice. “I’m just, you know, helping out with a criminal research project.”

The twins’ gazes briefly meet each other. “Sounds pretty dark for a research project, bud. You might be in over your head.”

“Right? Stress isn’t good for your immune system,” Margot adds.

“Sorry we can’t help you out.”

“Yeah, I feel bad. Like that time my followers called me out on getting cornrows.”

Grey hides his disappointment behind a lame smile. “It was kind of a longshot, anyway. But thanks.”

“No prob,” chirps Margot, “But really, whatever this is about? You should drop it, Grey. It could be like, dangerous, or something.”

“Yeah, man. Poking at this kind of stuff was fine when we all had Kevlar stealth suits and smoke bombs, but that was years ago. We’re not about that life anymore. Move on.”

“Mmhm. Yeah. Move on.”

“Seriously,” Mateo intones. “Move on.”

The humor and warmth in their expressions vanish. There’s something stiff and strange about the twins now, like they're holding back something that they’re also eager to share. Grey suddenly feels the need to get out of the café as quickly as possible.

“Well, a lot to think about. I’ll... definitely... consider… your advice. Thanks! Great seeing you two again. Gotta skedaddle.” His attempt to stand up is stopped dead by the sound of a metal click. He understands, immediately, that Mateo is pointing a gun at him from underneath the table.

“Actually,” Mateo says flatly, “Why don’t you stay.”

“Yes,” his sister agrees with an equally lifeless voice. “I think it’s time we all started telling the truth. Don’t you, Spectre?”

**To be continued in… **

**Grey Matter, Part 2**


	3. Grey Matter, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grey discovers the dangers of his past have firmly arrived in his present. The Blades band together to stop the museum's multigate from opening – but not before an impromptu visit to Grey's sister, Thea.

1.

Grey sits as rigidly still as he can. The twins stare at him with predatory amusement.

"I don't know about you, Kestrel, but I wasn't expecting our little chat to end up like this," Margot tuts.

"Not like this at all, Dandelion," her brother replies.

Dozens of questions bash against each other in Grey's mind. He grabs onto the loudest one. "Why are you doing this?"

"We're not doing anything, bro." Mateo's voice is hard and cold. "You're the one who swooped in where you don't belong and started asking questions you shouldn't ask. Who are you working for now? NSA? CIA?"

"You guys have this all wrong. I'm not working for anyone."

Margot's nose pinches with derision. "Don't lie to us anymore, Spectre. It's such a loathsome habit."

"I'm not-"

The metallic click under the table again. A grim reminder that it's there, as if Grey had forgotten. He wonders if Eoin is watching this exchange. Why did he have to tell the man to keep his distance?

Stupid, Grey thinks to himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"We have two options here," Margot says as she nests her sharp chin between her hands. "You can tell us who you're working for or Kestrel can put a bullet in your stomach."

Grey looks at him. "You wouldn't. Not in a public place."

"Dandelion and I would be gone before your corpse could hit the floor. And I've got a CCTV footage scrambler right next to my spare clip."

Grey's mouth feels very dry. He knows he's risking a lot by what he's about to say, but he needs to see their faces when he does. "You're both still using your call signs. Echelon 7 is back, isn't it? And it hired you two as counterintelligence."

Their faces all but confirm it. "You were always such a pest," Margot sighs. "Nothing's changed."

He swallows a rising lump in his throat. The questions in his mind become increasingly panicked. Borderline hysterical, in fact. Why is Echelon 7 back? Has the program gone rogue? Who are the directors now? And why is their counterintelligence unit stonewalling him so aggressively when they could be working together to bring down Marek's benefactor? Unless... and the next thought chills him to the bone because it makes too much sense...

_Unless Echelon 7 __**is**__ Marek's benefactor_.

Margot's lips curl into a cruel smile. "Look at that. I think Spectre might have figured something out."

"Yes. Something important, Dandelion."

"And now we might need to put that bullet in you after all. This is such a shame."

Mateo shakes his head. "You never did learn how to hide what you're thinking."

"Bet you're terrible at poker."

"Then it's true," Grey whispers to himself. He's so focused on the sneering faces of the twins - and the hidden gun - that he's startled when one of the café's servers shows up at their table.

"Hi, folks!" the server, young and friendly and hopelessly unaware to the tension he just stepped into, smiles and waves. "Couldn't help but notice no one's served you yet. Our apologies for the wait."

Mateo's sneer fades into a frown. "We're fine, thank you."

"Actually," Grey starts, his heart in his throat. "I'm a little thirsty."

The twins glare at him. Margot's impeccable eyelashes flutter like angry butterfly wings.

"No problem-o. What can I-"

"Iced coffee. Milk. No sugar. In the tallest glass you have. Bring it on a tray, please. Thank you."

"Coming right up. And can I get anything for-"

"I said we're fine, bro," Mateo barks.

The server, now with an odd look on his face, quickly disappears to the barista bar.

"Cute," Margot says, "But you're stalling. We know all your tricks, Spectre, so just be honest for once. Tell us who you work for."

"Or die," her brother adds impatiently. "I know which one has my vote."

Grey listens as his drink is prepared several feet away. Ice cubes tumble, glass clinks, cool liquid stirs. A glass is set on a tray. A throat clears. Footsteps.

He inhales, deeply, tensing his muscles. "You're wrong," Grey says as their server approaches with the tall glass on a tray.

Margot's eyes narrow. "About what?"

"You don't know all my tricks."

And then Grey kicks out from his chair and sweeps the legs of their server. The tray tips and iced coffee splashes all over Mateo's face and chest. Grey launches over the table and tackles the brother to the ground. There are screams, chairs toppling over, and people running. He wrestles Mateo for control of the gun for several tense seconds before successfully disarming him. The weapon skitters across the floor. Grey runs for it, dodging panicked café patrons, until a thin metal rod slams into his chest and forces him to the floor.

Margot appears, twirling a solid iron Bo staff a meter in length. "Tricky boy. Tricky, tricky, tricky."

"Where were you even hiding that?" Grey asks incredulously.

She strikes downward but Grey darts to the side before it can connect. He springs to his feet as Margot comes at him again. He continues dodging, barely, as the staff slices the air around him like a knife. He throws everything he can get his hands on, cups, spoons, empty water jugs, but Margot slashes them all out of the way. She matches every kick and counters every punch with the solid end of her staff. At Grey's labored movements, she laughs.

"Only 25 and dreadfully out of practice. Kestrel would've done you a favor by shooting you."

She lunges forward - exactly what Grey waited for - and then he kicks a chair into her path. Margot's momentum trips her up and she crashes to the ground.

The gun. Grey sees it just a moment before Mateo swoops in and grabs it off the floor. His face and chest are dripping wet with cold coffee.

"You're fast, Spectre." He takes off the safety and aims it square at Grey's face. "Not fast enough."

A split second before he can pull the trigger, a metal hand closes over the barrel and crushes it with tremendous strength. Eoin opens his palm and lets the shards fall uselessly to the floor. Mateo's look of shock lasts only until Eoin punches him clear across the room. He lands, unconscious, on an overturned table.

Grey, impressed: "I was wondering when you were gonna chime in."

"You're welcome."

Grey scans the destroyed café. The twins lie injured and unmoving. "Are you going to say 'I told you so'?"

"No. But rest assured I am thinking it."

Not long after the duo disappears, Margot hauls herself into a sitting position. Blood from a nasty cut trickles down her forehead. Several feet away, her brother starts coming to. He clutches his bruised face and groans. She taps the signal receiver in her ear.

"It's Dandelion. We have a problem. Spectre's gone rogue."

2.

"Wait," Captain Alpha rubs his tired eyes. "Who do I have to punch?"

Silas chuckles as he leans against the chamber wall. "Sounds like the Terrible Twosome over there did all the punching for you, Cap."

"So, I'm not punching anyone? Why was I called down in the middle of work again?"

The Blades, all in one place for the first time since the museum mission, gather around Forward's crystal obelisk. Grey examines them individually: Captain Alpha, working a stick of gum and wishing he was anywhere but here; Silas, relaxed and bemused as always; Eoin, cool and silent, standing at attention with his hands behind his back.

"I called this meeting because..." Grey swallows a lump in his throat. "I think I might be in trouble."

Silas frowns. "In trouble how? I reckon these twins started the fight, not you."

"Bigger trouble than that. The program that made me into the adorable spy-slash-human-weapon you see before you isn't as dead in the water as I thought. It was called Echelon 7."

Captain Alpha shrugs his massive shoulders. "Any time an evil organization tried to flex its muscles on my world, I just hit it with some laser beam eyes. Bing, bang, boom. Done and dusted."

Silas raises his hand. "I vote for the laser beam eyes."

"This is more complicated than that."

"Kid, trust me on this. You deal with one evil org, you've dealt with them all. The Assembly of Doom, the Vile Company, the Chaos League, they're all the same damn thing in the end. Though I might give them a bonus point if their name is abbreviated. It's been a while since I heard from an E.V.I.L. or a D.A.R.K."

"But these aren't supervillains scheming in some hideout, Alph."

Silas makes a noise of surprise. "Awfully charitable of you, considering they almost put a bullet in your belly."

"Look, I get it, the twins are bad news. But Echelon 7 is bigger than you guys realize and they're tied into very powerful systems. We can't go in guns or laser beam eyes blazing until we know why they're back and why they're running counterintelligence so aggressively."

"He's right." It's the first thing Eoin's said since the meeting was called. Grey notices the other two men standing a little straighter. "We need to understand our enemy to defeat them."

Silas nods toward the obelisk. "Any thoughts on this, crystal face?"

"Listen to Grey," Forward intones. "His experience with this organization is valuable. And do not call us crystal face."

Captain Alpha catches his gaze. "Then what's the next step, kid?"

"Echelon 7 hiring Marek's company means a few things. First, it means they're playing dirty now. I wasn't privy to everything going on when I was a trainee, but as far as I knew, domestic terrorism wasn't a line item on the budget."

Captain Alpha: "But that Marek shithead wasn't an operative, was he?"

"No. That had to have been a shadow contract. Built-in deniability, no one ever connects them to the attack."

Silas: "Except us."

"Except Grey," Eoin corrects.

He allows himself an appreciative grin before he continues. "Lastly, with the directed attack on the museum, it has to mean they know about the multigate inside."

Silas: "But what's their dang interest in it?"

"Exactly what we need to find out," Grey finishes. "Best case scenario is they're planning on taking a selfie in front of the thing."

Eoin: "I don't believe in best case scenarios."

Silas: "Neither do I."

Captain Alpha: "None of us do. It might be the only thing we all have in common."

"Maybe not the _only_ thing," Silas says with a wink that's met with groans and eye rolls.

Eoin: "The museum. We need to investigate it after hours."

Captain Alpha: "Tonight? I've got plans."

Silas: "You can down another bottle of cheap whiskey after we save the world."

"It wasn't cheap whiskey."

"Brother, I know that label. I'm surprised it didn't come in a jug."

"I was having a bad night."

"What, twenty nights in a row?"

"I was having a bad month."

"Enough," Eoin cuts in. "Forgive us, Captain, but your plans can wait until we are off-mission. We need to secure the multigate before Echelon 7 get their hands on it."

"I agree." Grey pauses and makes a face. "Anyone else think it's weird to agree with something Eoin says?"

Captain Alpha: "It even sounded weird."

Eoin ignores them. "We'll start after the museum closes tonight. Grey, can you work out an infiltration strategy?"

"Already did," Grey taps the side of his head. He starts up the stairs. "I just need to grab a few things from my place."

Eoin: "Wait. On your own? I don't think that's wise."

"I don't usually need another person's help using public transit. But if you guys want another lesson, I am begging you, please don't wear your battle outfits this time."

Silas: "The twins'll be looking for you, darlin'. You figured out what the black hats are twirling their mustaches over. That makes you a target."

Grey waves a dismissive hand in the air. "I'll be-"

"Don't say you'll be fine," Eoin interrupts. "Just an hour ago you said the twins wouldn't be a threat."

"I handled it, didn't I? I was able to distract them with the server-"

"The server _I _sent to your table because I noticed the male twin's weapon."

Grey's mouth opens but he doesn't reply. Silas catches him with a '_Oohh, busted_' look.

Eoin: "You're our window into this world. We can't risk anything happening to you."

Silas nods. "You said it yourself at the top of the meeting, partner. You're in trouble. That means you need our help."

Eoin: "And we're meant to protect each other. All of us."

Captain Alpha, hesitating: "I, um, agree. Man, that really does feel weird."

This exchange gives Grey pause. Being cared for by anyone, let alone the three men he's fought alongside the past couple of months... well, it's a new feeling. A nice one.

"Okay," he breathes. "So, what now? I can't stay in the library forever."

"Do you really need to go back to your place?" Captain Alpha asks.

"Yep, I really do. I've got old gear stowed there that'll help us tonight."

Silas gives his revolvers a loose spin before depositing them back into his hip holsters. "Then I think that means we're coming home with you."

3.

"No one touch anything. Especially Silas."

"What makes you think I'll be touching your stuff?"

"The fact that you're always touching my stuff."

"You only caught me trying on your stealth suit one time."

"Yeah, well, once was enough."

"It didn't even fit past my legs."

Grey and Silas continue bantering as they step off the elevator. It's only a short walk to his apartment door but it feels longer. Captain Alpha and Eoin follow, exchanging tired looks.

"Is this how Grey and I sound when we argue?" Eoin asks.

Captain Alpha considers his answer. "Hmm. Swap out the Southern accent for a British one, trade a 'Hey partner' for a 'Silence, my sword needs cleaning' and, yeah, it's almost there."

Eoin, eyebrow arching: "Almost?"

Grey fishes through his pockets for the apartment keys while Silas goes on a rant about the illusion of privacy.

"The vibe's a little different when you and G go at it."

"What does that mean, the 'vibe' is 'different'?"

"It's just kinda, um, heated between you two. If you know what I mean"

"That's- how- you're- that's a very-" It's not like Eoin to stumble over his words, which makes the knowing smile on the Cap's face that much more damning.

After an eternity of rummaging, Grey finally unlocks the door. "Sorry. My pockets are like bottomless pits sometimes."

Silas blocks the entryway. "Hold it, partner. Let us do a sweep of your place first, make sure it's safe."

"Oh, come on. We took the subway here without anyone trying to kill us, if you don't count that old man with the walking cane."

Captain Alpha: "Hey, I gave up my seat when he asked. Eventually."

"Silas is right," Eoin steps forward. "We must ensure there are no unsavory characters lurking about."

"More unsavory than you three?"

"This isn't funny, Grey."

"It's a little funny. You really think there's an assassin in my apartment? My name isn't even on the lease."

"I think anything's possible now that 'Instagram influencers' are running amok with guns and iron staffs. Now step aside. Silas, you're with me. Captain, stay here with him."

Grudgingly, Grey watches him and Silas enter the apartment. "How long is he going to hold that against me?"

Captain Alpha crosses his arms and grins down at his feet. "Heated…"

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

A woman screams.

Captain Alpha furrows his brow. "Whoever that was sounds like the worst assassin ever."

"Shit," Grey barrels past him.

In the living room, a tense woman in nurse scrubs holds her keys in a defensive stance. "Grey? Who the fuck are these people?"

"We would like to ask the same of yourself, madam," Eoin says with his arms crossed.

"Yeah," Silas nods, "What he said."

"Your input is not needed right now," Eoin hisses over his shoulder.

"Red Ranger, Blue Ranger, both of you stand down. Thea is my sister. I live with her."

"You live with _me_," she corrects, never taking her eyes off the peculiar men. Similar to her younger brother, she's possessed with a cutting intelligence, sharp green eyes, and glossy black hair. "Grey, why are there two weird men in my apartment?"

"Coming through," Captain Alpha announces as he casually strolls through the front door and into the kitchen.

Thea's mouth twists into a question mark. "Three weird men?"

Grey pinches the space between his eyebrows. "I thought you were at work."

"I had some time between shifts so I thought, like the crazy kook I am, that I'd drop by my _own_ apartment and take a nap on my _own_ bed without being accosted by large, rugged strangers."

The Cap wanders in to join the rest of the group. He loudly pops open a Diet Coke and downs it in one gulp. "I couldn't find any beer, so..."

Thea's small reserve of patience disappears. "Who the fuck are you people?!"

"Trainer!" Grey blabs the first thing that comes to mind. "My trainer!" He gestures to Captain Alpha, pats one of his considerable biceps. "This is... my... trainer. That I see. In a gym. He trains me."

"But we're not in a gym?"

"Right. It's closed today. They have... mold... and... asbestos... and... bed bugs... so I thought we'd use our place. Sorry, I should've texted you first."

Thea eyes the superhero warily. Grey silently prays that the trench coat he made Cap throw over his outfit is enough to sell the lie. She moves onto Silas next. "And who's the one with the tan?"

"My other trainer."

"You have two?"

Grey offers a feeble laugh. "I know, and yet I still look like I could fall through a sewer grate. It takes a village, right?"

"Howdy, ma'am," Silas offers with a tip of his hat. "This might be the first time Grey hasn't been the prettiest one in the room."

Ignoring that remark, Thea lands on Eoin. "Don't tell me this is your third trainer. I don't even know how you're affording two."

Right, Grey thinks. She's not gonna fall for that a third time. "This is my, um..." He stumbles through a mental list of excuses. Plumber? Chimney sweep? Bodyguard?

"Boyfriend," Captain Alpha finishes for him.

"Yep," Silas nods. "Boyfriend."

"They like to work out together. Cutest damn couple I ever did see."

Grey slashes them both with a deadly look. "I don't think that's-"

Thea's fury vanishes instantly. "Oh my god, Grey. You're finally introducing me to a boyfriend? Damn, good for you, little brother."

Eoin stiffens as Thea grabs his hands in an appreciative shake. "I've never met anyone he's dated before. This is like, such a huge deal right now. Hi! I'm Thea. I'm sorry I called you large and strange."

He looks at the other men, wide eyed. Silas and Cap nod imploringly, willing him to go along with the ruse. Grey, bright red, looks at the floor and pinches that space between his eyes again.

"Er. Yes, right. Pleasure to meet you. I'm Eoin."

"God, I love your accent. It's so Mr. Darcy. Where are you from?"

With a somewhat panicked expression, Grey mouths _London!_ at him.

"From... from... Longdah?"

"Huh. I guess that's one of those little English regions no one's ever heard of?"

Grey checks his watch. This whole encounter has been painful, so he's relieved to see they're running late. "Hey, sis, I'm really sorry about this whole thing. It was rude of me not to let you know first."

"Oh, please. Bring your handsome boyfriend and your hot trainers over any time you want."

Silas nudges Cap. "Hear that? We got upgraded."

"Er, appreciated, but I think we'll just get out your hair. I'll grab my workout gear and go. Alph, do you wanna maybe give me a hand?"

Without waiting for the superhero to respond, Grey drags him into his room and shuts the door. Cap rubs at the sore spot on his arm.

"I'm saying this as someone with super strength – ow."

"Boyfriend? Really?"

"If you were a little quicker you would've come up with something better. What kind of spy can't think on his feet, anyway?"

"One who was never good at lying in the first place," Grey says as he pulls a black duffel bag out from under his bed. "Why do you think I left Echelon 7?"

"I don't know," The Cap shrugs as he takes in Grey's bedroom. The walls are adorned with faded posters, mostly horror and arthouse movies. "I don't really know anything about your past."

Grey unzips the bag and rummages through the contents. Among them: smoke bombs, a retractable compact garrote, a non-lethal tranquilizer rifle, and a pair of escrima sticks with electrically charged tips. Memories flicker by, not all of them pleasant.

"Look," the superhero says when the silence stretches too long, "You know we're all doing this to help you out, right?"

"I know. You're right, I'm sorry. It's just been a very strange day."

"How strange?"

"Like, 'the clandestine espionage program I spent seven years training in is now a domestic terrorist organization maybe' kind of strange. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Aiming for the latter, to be honest."

"Ah. I see." Captain Alpha scratches the back of his head. He finds this kind of stuff agonizing. "You'll get through it, okay? I, uh, believe in you."

Grey smiles ruefully. "How painful was that for you to say?"

"Extremely. I don't think it's one of my superpowers."

"You know, when I was a kid," Grey says as he packs a spare stealth suit into the duffel bag, "I always wanted to be best friends with a superhero. I never in a million years thought I'd meet one."

"Sorry to disappoint you, then."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think a whiskey-swilling curmudgeon is what anyone would've expected from a man in a cape. Let alone what anyone would want in a best friend."

Grey zips the bag and hauls it over his shoulders. "Well, is it weird that I want to be friends anyway?"

Captain Alpha looks at him, examines his expression for sarcasm or deception. He finds none. He lets himself smile. "Yeah. Very weird. Weirdo."

Grey extends a hand. "We'll shake on it? Like two weirdos?"

Without warning, he's pulled into a hug instead. Captain Alpha is warm, and smells good, too, like fresh soap and a pine tree. He wonders if this is how Alph used to calm down hysterical citizens on his world. Hell, maybe this is one of his superpowers. The embrace manages to calm Grey's thundering heart, if only for a few moments.

"Thanks," he says when they pull apart. The word comes out surprisingly shy.

"No problem. You looked like you needed it. It was either that or me trying to sound reassuring again."

"Yeah, let's avoid that next time."

4.

At the stroke of midnight, The Blades gather on the roof of the Royal Ontario Museum. Grey perches over the skylight that peers over a collection of suspended dinosaur skeletons. He tinkers with the setting of his goggles for a moment before they retract up to his forehead.

"The guards are finished their patrol of this wing," Grey says. "They shouldn't be back for another hour, it's as good an entry point as any. Eoin, explain how your sword thingy works again?"

"It is not a sword _thingy."_

"I know, I just like making you say dumb words."

"This is the Spellblade of Eulkryin, the Goddess of War. The Spellblade thrummed with energy when the multigate that brought me here appeared on my world. Since then, it has responded similarly when in the presence of other multigates. I felt a faint energy signature the other week during our takedown of Marek's company."

"Okay. Cool beans. You're coming with me. Silas, you'll be our sniper."

"Here, here," Silas responds as he hefts the tranquilizer rifle. "Thanks again for the new piece. Much as I'd prefer real bullets to sleepy darts."

"I'm trusting that perfect aim of yours to take care of any guards that get the drop on us."

"Don't get your spurs in a twist. I got this."

"Alph, can you do a sweep of the building and watch out for Echelon 7 operatives? And, if need be, give 'em the old razzle dazzle?"

"If I gotta. What should I be looking for?"

"People wearing stealth suits that look exactly like mine."

"Ah, that shouldn't be confusing at all."

"My suit is the only one with blue accents, if that helps."

"So, blue accents mean don't shoot with laser beam eyes."

"I would appreciate that."

The Cap gives a small salute before he lifts off into the night sky. Silas takes his position by one of the rooftop's stone gargoyles. After exchanging a quick nod, Grey and Eoin jump into the open panel of the skylight.

The magic of Eoin's Spellblade cushions their landing with a subtle glow of red light at their feet. Grey takes in the dark, sprawling space of the building. It looks spooky after hours, all shadows and hidden crevices.

"Where should we start?"

Eoin examines the blade. "The energy signature is back, but it's still faint. Wherever the multigate is, it's not in this part of the building."

"Any thoughts on a direction we can take, or should we eenie-meenie-miney-mo it?"

Eoin stabs a finger to a corridor on their right. "Let's go there."

"Wow, executive decision made."

"I just wanted to avoid whatever eenie-meenie-miney-mo-ing it means." A pause. "You really do enjoy making me say the most asinine things, don't you?"

They head to the right. A long passageway leads them out of the dinosaur exhibition and into a large room full of ancient pottery kept inside individual glass display cases.

"Anything yet?"

"No, but the Spellblade's signature is marginally stronger now. We're on the right path."

They continue through the room. Grey catches Eoin's eye a couple of times. It takes him a few moments to summon the words. "Hey, I'm sorry if... I'm sorry about Thea. She's, you know, spirited."

"She seemed thrilled to think you had a partner."

"Thea thinks I'm a loner. Wants me to 'get out there more', says I won't be this young forever."

"Does she know about Echelon 7?"

Grimly, he shakes his head. "My parents didn't either. I, um, ran away when I was 13. That's when I got caught up in the program."

"How long had you trained with them?"

"Seven years." A very familiar gash of shame burrows into Grey's stomach. "My family thought I was dead. By the time I reintegrated back into society... my parents were gone. It was only my sister."

The shame twists like a knife. He doesn't continue, hoping that his silence can fill in the gaps.

"I'm sorry," Eoin says deeply.

"When she asked me what happened, I just told her I wanted to disappear. Which is the truth, technically, but I never told her anything else, and she's never asked about it since then."

When he finds the strength to face Eoin again, he's surprised to see the man looking at him with an expression resembling kindness. Or something close to it. "In the little time I spent with her, I gathered that she only wants you to be happy. And to not be alone."

The shame, while still present, manages to soften. Grey doesn't look away this time. "I'm not alone."

Footsteps, somewhere north of the room. Grey and Eoin fall behind one of the display cases. One peek around the corner reveals two entering guards. The room has a solid ceiling with no windows, there's no way for Silas to intercept.

"You said they wouldn't be back on patrol for an hour," Eoin whispers.

"Give or take."

"Give or take an _hour_?"

"Shhh." Grey lowers the multi-function goggles back onto his eyes and uses the zoom function. Although the two men are wearing museum security jackets, they don't look like your typical paunchy, middle-aged night guards. "Wait. I think we've got a problem."

Eoin takes a look for himself. The guards move with clipped, tactical precision. They're toned and powerful looking guys with buzzed scalps. Their search of the display room is aggressive and purposeful. "I take it these are no mere watchmen."

One of the men crouches to peer beneath a display bench. His jacket flap opens, revealing an Echelon 7 stealth suit.

"Shit." Grey doubles back, pressing himself flat against the case. "It's them. The black hats."

"What? How?"

"The twins must have known this would be my next move. Fuck."

"Their jackets..."

"They must have taken care of the real guards before we could. Look, as long as we keep quiet, there's no way they'll find us."

"Found them," an operative calls as he appears around the display case.

Grey and Eoin exchange a stunned look. And then the operative whips out a gun and fires. Eoin's shield is already out. The bullets spark off the ancient metal with solid, clattering echoes.

"You two were really loud," the operative grunts. "Like, I know you think you're whispering, but come on."

Grey flings a smoke bomb at the operative's feet and kicks his legs out from under him. The operative quickly springs back, attacking with a kick of his own. It connects to Grey's stomach and slams him against the display case.

"It's a museum, guys. Sound travels. Be more aware."

"Thanks for the advice."

"No worries."

As he advances, Grey lands two blows with his escrima sticks before jamming one end against the operative's neck and firing a pulse of electric energy. By the time the operative drops to the floor, the marble-sized device has hissed out a cloudy mist that shrouds the entire room.

Grey and Eoin start toward the exit when the second operative comes barreling through the smoke. Eoin rams his shield to the man's chest, knocking him off balance. Grey catches the operative's fist and thrusts a kneecap to his stomach. The operative comes back again, albeit staggered and winded now, and after another solid kick to the side of his torso and followed by a bash from Eoin's shield, he's put out for good.

"There'll be more," Eoin says plainly.

"Definitely. Let's get back to the Stetson and the cape. If we can't muscle our way to the multigate we'll need to figure out another approach."

They head back to the display room's exit, or they try to, for the passageway is blocked by a whole crowd of Echelon 7 operatives, each with a gun trained on them. There are at least twenty, and perhaps even more hiding beyond the smoky haze. Margot stands prominently at the front, hair slicked back in a high pony tail and her lips stretched into a magazine-perfect smile.

"Oh, sweetheart," she sighs. "You're becoming as predictable as my followers whenever I post a swimsuit pic."

5.

"Eoin, Grey, come in," Silas taps at his earpiece. In the cool night air of the rooftop, his signal should be going out loud and clear. But only the hiss of static answers him. Without even meaning to, he growls. It escapes his throat as full-bodied and monstrous, sending a river of tingles through his body. He leans against the nearby stone gargoyle.

"Don't be turning hairy now," Silas warns himself.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'd love to see it."

Silas whips around and aims the tranq rifle at the male Echelon 7 operative crouching nearby in the shadows.

"Ah, Mateo," Silas says, as if he were greeting an old gambling buddy.

The operative rises, cocks his head. "Have we met?"

"Nope. But Grey told me all about you. Said you're like a discount Hemsworth brother. Now, it took me a couple of tries at the ol' computer to find out what that meant, but I gotta say, the kid was spot on."

Mateo lunges to attack. Silas fires. His aim is true, but the needled dart is no match for the thick padding on the operative's suit. Mateo unsheathes two black combat knives from his belt and strikes at Silas with hard, swinging slashes. Silas ducks and swerves, using the tranq rifle several times to block his attacker.

"Discount? Hemsworth? Brother?" Mateo says furiously between blows.

"Don't take it so harsh. Not your fault your sister got the good genes."

Mateo thrusts both knives forward. Silas catches him by the wrists, dropping the tranq rifle in the process. Mateo angles them around until Silas' heels scrape against the rooftop ledge. It's a long way down.

"I only came here to knock you out, bro," Mateo says as he struggles to gain control. "But you just had to make it personal."

"Cap, Eoin, Grey. Anyone. Now'd be a nice time to pop back in!" Silas grits through his teeth.

"Don't think so, bro. We set up radio jammers everywhere. If you and your boys came this unprepared, then you really do deserve this."

Mateo twists his wrists away from Silas' grip and puts his full weight into knocking the cowboy backwards. Silas slips, eyes going wide with panic, as he falls off the roof.

"Nice not knowing you!" Mateo shouts as he watches Silas tumble to the cold, hard pavement below.

**To be continued in...**

**Grey Matter, Part 3**


	4. Grey Matter, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the Blades vs. Echelon 7 in this action-packed showdown to secure the rip in time-space, known as a multigate. But it won't be an easy win for the good guys, especially as the true reason behind the multigate's opening is revealed...

1.

_Alright_, Silas thinks as he plunges to his death, _this might hurt a bit_.

His hands find the length of rope tied to his belt in wide loops, and in an instant, he's flung a lasso up into the sky. It tightens around a spire along the roof ledge. Using the momentum of his fall, Silas swings in a loose arc and then releases as soon as he's within safe distance to the ground. He lands in a tangle of bushes.

Silas emerges, no worse for wear save for a few scratches. But he's startled to find dark patches of hair on his hands, and long, gnarled claws beginning to grow from his fingers. His face, usually dusted with a five-o-clock shadow, has grown to a full beard. His gums are starting to hurt, too, which means the incisors are pushing through.

"No, no, no. Not now, damn it."

"This is what you meant by hairy?" Mateo smirks, crouching above him from the ledge. "Who knew Spectre ran with such a freaky crowd?"

Growling, Silas raises one of his revolvers and shoots. The shot goes wide above Mateo's head. It ricochets off something the operative can't see.

"You missed, Wolf Man."

"Did I?"

A metal chain snaps, end then a gargoyle rips free from its stone platform and drops solidly on Mateo's head. He goes out like a snuffed candle.

"Punk," Silas sniffs. He stumbles onto the clear pavement as a whoosh of air announces Captain Alpha descending from the sky. "Hey. Took your caped ass long enough!"

"My earpiece isn't working. What the fuck is going on? Do you realize now isn't a great time to be turning into a werewolf?"

"Crossed my mind," Silas growls. A jab of pain forces him to his knees. The familiar sensation of his insides ripping beneath his muscles is getting hard to ignore.

Captain Alpha grabs his shoulders. "Hey. Look at me. You need to control yourself."

"I can't."

"You can. When you don't, people around you get slashed into flank steak."

"You think I don't know that? Look, partner, I just—urrgghh—took out the male twin."

"I know. I saw some unmarked vehicles at the perimeter. I think we've got a party on our hands."

"_Grrrrraaarrrrrggghhhhhhhh._"

"Hey, hey! Stay with me. Think of nice things you like. Saloons and, fuck, I don't know? Horses? Root beer in a mug? Think about your world. What was your world called?"

"_Grrrragaggghh_-it was _also _called Earth, you dung brain."

"Right, I forgot. You guys never advanced beyond the American Old West."

"You calling my world slow? _Grrrrrrrrrrrr_-"

"Not slow. Traditional. I think you're- uh- you're- fucking hell. Do they have books that tell you how to be more comforting? I should read a couple, right?"

The whistle of an incoming projectile is the only warning both men get before an explosion rockets them into the air. Captain Alpha grabs Silas and shields him from the fiery debris.

"Still with me, furball?"

But Silas slumps over in his arms, unconscious. Cap sets him onto the ground, grimly noticing the black fur that sprouts from his neck and arms.

Another missile screams toward them. Pinning it with a hard glare, Captain Alpha's eyes glow like twin stars. A beam of pure energy strikes the projectile a safe distance away. Through the explosion, Cap spots a panicking Echelon 7 operative trying to reload a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

Cap launches across the parking lot and slams into the ground near the operative. The force of his landing blows the other man backward. The grenade launcher goes flying.

The terrified operative aims a Glock at the superhero's chest.

It takes all of Captain Alpha's willpower not to laugh. "Look, I could be at home with a pitcher of martinis right now. Don't insult me."

The operative fires. Bullet after bullet ricochets uselessly off Cap's body. His annoyance grows with every step.

"You done?"

The gun clicks empty.

"Yep. You're done."

Cap backhands the operative. It's a simple, light gesture, but his immense strength sends the man corkscrewing through the air until he hits the side of a parked van.

Cap's face screws up in embarrassment. "Oh, shit. My bad. I keep forgetting how delicate everyone is on this world."

Then his superior senses pick something up. A voice, whispering into another person's ear.

"Hemlock, this is your chance," the voice says. "You're up."

A second voice responds. "Yes, sir."

Someone skulks in the shadows surrounding the parking lot. Captain Alpha can't pinpoint the lurking figure's location – there must be some sort of sensory jamming equipment involved.

"I'm Halcyon City's strongest superhuman," he shouts in to the darkness. "I know that means fuck all in your world, but in mine, it means no one wastes my time playing hide and seek. Not even the psychokinesis of Dr. Crisis could-"

And then a figure leaps from seemingly out of nowhere and pounces on Captain Alpha's broad chest. It's another operative, male, going by the shape beneath the matte black stealth suit. Cap only gets a glimpse of a face – ivory skin, high cheekbones and full lips – before the operative kisses him deeply.

The sudden intimacy freezes Cap in place. But there's no time to appreciate the softness of the operative's lips, the sweet taste of his tongue, nor the slight moan that escapes his mouth, because the kiss injects him with a dark, poisonous energy that forces the hero to his knees.

The operative known as Hemlock retreats into the shadows with a dark grin. "Enjoy."

The darkness spreads through Captain Alpha's mind like a virus, leaking into every thought and drudging memories so unbearable that the paralyzed hero has no choice but to relive them, again and again, while a tortured scream erupts from his throat.

2.

In the museum's display room, the smoke begins to settle, offering Grey and Eoin a view of the ring of Echelon 7 operatives that surround them. The only figure in the room who dares to move is Margot. Casually twirling her Bo staff, she circles the two Blades like a hawk to her prey.

"I was right beside you through all seven years of training," Margot says. "I know you were taught better than to walk into a trap. Honestly, I've seen more intelligent maneuvering from the pervs who DM me every time I wear open-toed shoes in a selfie."

"We're stopping your organization from irreparably damaging this world's time-space," Eoin states.

"Ugh. Is this one always so dramatic?" Margot wallops him across the face with her staff. On instinct, Eoin goes for his sword, but the clicks of one hundred guns stops him in his tracks. "I'd keep it in your pants, Aragorn."

"Margot," Grey says. The sound of her real name makes her nose pinch. "I'm not sure if you realize this, but you and Echelon 7: The New Class are masterminding a metaphysical apocalypse and it needs to stop _now_."

"Nice spin, fake news. Why exactly do you think you're in a position to give orders?"

"Because the young are always stubborn," a new voice announces.

Everyone turns to watch a tall, formidable man in his 50s enter the room. With a shock of greying hair, a salt-and-pepper beard, and steel-colored eyes, he has an air of sophisticated danger to him. He wears the same stealth suit as the other operatives, and despite his age, he's in just as good shape. If not better.

"Sir," Margot nods as he passes.

Grey notices the ripple of deference that runs through the room at his approach. "Who are you?"

"You may not have met me before, but I know all about you, Spectre. I'm Echelon 7's director. Call sign: Zenith." He watches with a smile as indignation bristles across Grey's face. "If you're gearing up for a heroic lecture about how I turned this program into something dirty, I'd save it. The only thing I've changed is our area of focus. We may not train street youth anymore, but there's no need. As you can see from this turnout, our return on investment was quite staggering."

"You used us."

"Hah, I did no such thing. You knew what you were signing up for all those years ago."

Fury slashes Grey like a knife. "I was a child!"

"And children obey, as long as they understand. You understood what we did quite clearly."

"You took advantage of disenfranchised kids with nowhere else to go."

"Oh, what a convenient time to develop scruples!" Zenith addresses his subordinates with raised arms. "What did I just tell this young man about heroic lectures?"

A titter of laughs. Zenith takes notice of Eoin, glowering at him from Grey's side. "You. Sword man. You're not one of ours. What's your story?"

Margot scoffs. "Looks like he got lost on his way to the Medieval Times Dinner Theater."

More laughs. Eoin's face betrays nothing.

"You're a traveler, aren't you? I can always tell. You have that... _frisson_ of someone from another world."

Eoin keeps his voice neutral. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

A hearty laugh from Zenith. "That's cute. But there's no need for secrets here. Echelon 7 has been monitoring those portals ever since they've started appearing on our powerless, magic-less planet. You think you're the first traveler I've met?"

A flicker of eye contact between Eoin and Grey. They can't play ignorant anymore.

"You call them portals," Grey says.

"Do you have a better term? Perhaps 'multigates'?" Another smirk from him as Grey's eyes flare wide. "It's as if you slept through every one of your tech surveillance classes."

"Enough of this. What exactly do you want?" Eoin demands.

"We want what mankind has been striving for since we first stood upright. We want to _understand_. The multigate in this very museum will perhaps be the closest we get."

Grey shakes his head. "Then why orchestrate a massacre here? It doesn't make any sense."

"Ah. Yes, that ugly business with one Marek Ranskahov. We did not anticipate that he and his men would attempt mass murder. That is not what he and I agreed upon. I suspect his greed got the better of him."

Eoin, growling: "You put innocent people in danger."

"We did what was necessary under our hypothesis. As I said, I've been observing these multigates. The majority seem to be randomly triggered. But a few, such as the one in this very museum, are sensitive to trans-temporal stimuli." At their confusion, Zenith clarifies, "Emotions."

"You're saying our feelings affect this multigate?"

"Ah, fear, excitement, anger, and anxiety more specifically. The more concentrated those feelings are around it, the likelier it will open."

Grey stands his ground, but the spray of goosebumps down his neck and arms forces a shiver to his voice. "That's why you had Marek try to rob people here."

"The key word there is _try._ Our experiment was thwarted thanks to a band of oddly dressed men. Don't suppose you'd know anything about that?" Zenith chuckles, shrugs. "What do you say we put this tension behind us, Spectre? Have you and your pal help us finish our experiment?"

Grey senses the attention of everyone in the room on him. "We're not helping you open shit."

"Oh, you're not?"

Zenith motions to touch Grey but the Spellblade at his throat stops him. Around the room there is a furious click of guns but Zenith gestures for them to stop. He spares a glance at Eoin. "I'm sensing some overprotectiveness. May I propose we respect each other's boundaries?"

"If we are to speak of boundaries, I would think very carefully about what that hand does next."

A beat, and then Zenith backs up a step. "I was afraid of this… unwillingness of yours. But your participation is required. Without you, this would just be another waste of time."

"Last time I checked, I kicked your program to the curb. You can't make me do anything."

A grim smile. "How about this. Think back to your days as a trainee. Do you recall your weekly therapy sessions?"

"Yes, but what does that have to do with-"

"Do you remember what _happened_ in those sessions? What actually happened?"

"What are you talking about? I sat down with Dr. Agnew every Wednesday and we-" Grey blinks, confusion clouding him.

"Come now, Spectre. Think."

"I… I can't remember anymore. They're just… gaps in my memory now."

Zenith watches him closely. "Those sessions weren't actually for therapy, were they?"

Eoin, frowning: "What is this man talking about?"

"Do you remember the graveyard?" Zenith is so close that Grey can smell his cologne, his breath. "Do you remember what happens there?"

"No..." the young spy responds, not an answer, but a strangled plea.

Eoin's voice rises with panic. "Grey. What is he trying to do?"

"Naïve little child," Zenith says through gritted teeth. "Did you really think we let you walk out the door, back to your pathetic excuse of a life, without a way to pull you back in?"

Grey's breathing becomes rattled and hard. He's only capable of saying one thing. "Stop."

Zenith looks at Eoin next. "Do you by any chance know what a 'trigger phrase' is? It's a post-hypnotic suggestion. We embed one in all of our operatives. A failsafe contingency, you see. The phrase itself activates an operative's subconscious state. In that state, their minds and bodies have been programmed to execute only one order: kill."

"I said stop!" An angry tear streaks down Grey's face.

"Sometimes it can be a note of music, a combination of certain colors, or even a specific scent. In your case, Spectre, a spoken phrase. We went classic."

Grey grabs Eoin, his grip strong and desperate. "Whatever happens, you have to make sure I don't hurt anyone." Shaking, more tears spill down his face. "You have to stop me. Do you understand?"

"I believe it goes a little something like this," Zenith clears his throat.

"No."

"_In the graveyard at midnight_…"

"NO!"

"_In the graveyard at midnight…"_

"STOP!"

With an upturned flick of Zenith's chin, two operatives restrain Grey while a third roughly clamps a hand over his mouth. Eoin tries to intervene but several operatives surround him with guns.

Zenith finally completes the phrase_: "In the graveyard at might, a spectre haunts alone_."

Grey becomes very still. All emotion and color drain from his tear-stained face. An invisible switch has been pulled. He goes slack.

The operatives pull back, putting as much distance between them and Grey as possible. As the young spy lifts his head and squares his shoulders, Zenith nods in approval.

"You know what to do. Kill your friend here."

Without hesitation, Grey rockets forward and floors Eoin with the hardest punch the demon hunter has ever taken from another human being.

"Eulkyrin's eyes," Eoin spits blood. "Grey, what are you-"

He doesn't have time to finish. He narrowly dodges another strike, then another, and another. Each punch and kick are thrown with all of Grey's weight and strength. Eoin might have more height, reach, and muscle on the younger man, but he's not nearly as agile or quick.

Grey lands a crushing kneecap into Eoin's stomach before pulling himself onto the demon's hunter body and closing his legs around the man's shoulders and neck. Trapping him, Grey wallops Eoin's head with several sharp strikes of his elbow.

The spy's every move is merciless and precise, guided not by thought but pure, lethal instinct.

Zenith breathes in. Relief surges his body. "Finally, we can begin."

And then startled voices and screams erupt from the crowd of operatives. A ghastly figure appears at the room's entrance. At least seven feet tall, it's a monstrous, humanoid wolf covered in dark hair and sporting a mouthful of snarling, pointed teeth.

Silas. Fully transformed. And very, very angry.

Zenith hears Margot's panicked voice behind him. "Is that a fucking werewolf?"

"Dandelion, what do the readings look like?"

"The what-?"

"The temporal fabric readings!" he shouts, losing patience. "Don't _ever_ make me repeat myself again!"

Momentarily blinded by her panic, and the sight of the wolf beast charging through the crowd of operatives like a mad bull, Dandelion reaches for the tablet at her hip. "Level orange, sir. Getting close to red."

"Good," Zenith stares at the air in the room. A faint crackle of energy appears above the maelstrom. He feels it in his bones. The multigate is answering their call. "Nomad, Octave, you two set up the portal stabilizer. Dandelion, make sure everyone does their job."

"Sir, yes sir."

Echelon 7's new director stands back as the operatives execute his orders. He watches the chaos unfold before him. It's a fusion of different choreographies – on one side of the room, his subordinates versus the rampaging werewolf, and on the other, the brainwashed spy versus the overwhelmed demon hunter. At last, he's synthesized the perfect storm of adrenaline, anxiety, and fear, and soon it will prove Zenith's hypothesis correct.

He loves the feeling of being right.

3.

In the abyss of Captain Alpha's mind, he is trapped.

Trapped back on his world, in the ruins of what he was supposed to protect. What was formerly the bustling metropolis of Halcyon City is now a massive crater of fallen buildings and debris obscured in a thick haze of smoke and dust.

Hemlock's kiss has frozen him in place, forcing him to bear witness to this sepulcher of his former world. Everything he's running from, everything he's tried to hide, is scattered among the destruction at his feet.

Beyond this prison of thought, Captain Alpha feels a familiar ripple. The fabric of time-space is straining again, and someone or something is staring out from behind its obsidian mask. The presence casts a shadow over Captain Alpha with an intimate, cruel gaze. Whoever or whatever the presence is, the desperation of its fury is enough to make the superhero catatonic with fear.

The presence is angry. And it's coming closer.

4.

"Grey. Grey! Listen to me - stop!"

Eoin's frustrated pleas are muffled by the repeated kicks, punches, and strikes the brainwashed spy levels against his body. He's never seen Grey like this. It scares him, this hollow shell, this automaton whose only drive is to hurt and kill.

Even with Eoin's considerable strength and stamina, the fight wears heavily on him. He's not used to squaring off with one opponent longer than ten, maybe fifteen seconds. His sense of time has distorted, measured only in punches taken and kicks absorbed.

As their battle wages on, Eoin becomes faintly aware that the Spellblade is quaking with energy. He dares not use it on Grey - it is a weapon suitable only for blocking projectiles or ending a fight with a killing blow. He's not sure how useful it would be anyway given its shuddering movement. Something is happening in the air, both around and above them, and it's provoking the Spellblade like a chemical reaction…

Suddenly, light splits the air above them like a knife wound. The crease widens as energy crackles from within, the color of colorlessness, like the deep sea or the vacuum of space.

The multigate. It's open now.

The thought lasts only a moment until Grey socks him across the jaw. Eoin stumbles backward. The spy pounces, putting all his weight on Eoin's body and gripping his throat. Grey is lithe, but surprisingly compact, and Eoin fights to free himself.

Above them, a maelstrom of energy rages and boils like a furious storm. It's like peering into a giant window in which the other side is a vista of chaos – all non-Euclidean landscapes and constantly morphing shapes.

"Grey," he calls, strangled and desperate. "You asked me before. About who I missed from my world. I said no one. I lied."

Grey's face betrays no emotion, he's still hard set into his programming. But his grip around Eoin's neck stops tightening.

"I... I had a squire," Eoin says, the words bunching uncomfortably at his throat, "His name was Rolf. I loved him. Very much. But he didn't love me back."

A flicker of emotion, faint and smoke-like against the stoniness of Grey's expression. Eoin takes advantage of the distraction to bring his knee hard into Grey's stomach, and then a round punch to the side of his head. All the fight leaves the younger man immediately. The demon hunter shrugs him off and finds his footing again, only to run face first into Werewolf Silas.

"Oh, for Eulkyrin's sake!" is all Eoin can say before the werewolf lunges.

5.

The multigate in the ceiling spits and swirls. Wind picks up in the museum's cavernous space. No one notices at first, but a small screw, knocked loose from a display, rises into the air and disappears into the gate's vast opening like a vacuum cleaner sucking up dust.

After several moments, Grey opens his eyes. His entire body is wracked with pain, especially his throbbing head. He forces himself to sit up. Focus. The last thing he remembers is Zenith, standing next to Eoin, and...

Someone's gun hurtles through the air, nearly missing Grey's face before disappearing up into the multigate. Grey blinks, not quite believing it's real. And then an old vase is sucked up from its display case.

_Fuck_.

Grey snaps to his feet. He tries to get his bearings, images of a dark graveyard still fogging his head. The operatives in the room – those that haven't already fled – are spread out and panicking. Not because of the increasingly unstable multigate, but the seven-foot werewolf rampaging through them. Eoin is straddled onto Silas' hairy back, trying desperately to bring him to the ground, but the beast bucks and swipes at him.

_Fuuuuuuck_, Grey thinks again. _Okay. Prioritize. Werewolf Silas. No. Seal the gate. Somehow?_

At the center of the room sits a box-shaped device tethered to the multigate by way of a blue chain of energy. He vaguely remembers seeing two operatives set it up. He tries to remember what it was called. A stabilizer?

_That's gotta be what's keeping the gate open_. _I have to turn it off..._

The other operatives are distracted by Silas – it's the perfect opening. Grey starts for the stabilizer, but the pain lashing his body keeps him from running. He drops to his knees, crawls toward it. Above him, the multigate increases in size, as do the howls of wind bearing down on the room. More objects are being sucked up into the unforgiving maw of energy: shattered glass, sections of velvet rope, some of the lighter chairs...

_And if you don't move your ass, you're getting vacuumed into that thing next_.

His pace increases. His body shrieks with pain, he wouldn't be surprised if he had bruised organs and internal bleeding, but he ignores it. He's only several feet away, when-

"Little puppet," Zenith tuts at him.

Zenith's boot stamps down on Grey's outstretched hand, making him cry out in agony.

Next, he grabs Grey's collar and brings their faces uncomfortably close together. "I think it's time to tighten those strings again, little puppet. Your knight in rusted armor is still alive and you were never one to leave a job unfinished, were you?" He pauses, licks his lips in anticipation. "_In the graveyard at midnight, the spec_-"

Grey interrupts him with 50,000 volts into his neck. Zenith flies across the room in a shower of sparks.

"Consider the strings cut."

Summoning what's left of his strength, Grey manages to stand. But he's only a few feet away from the stabilizer when another operative steps in front of him.

Margot.

"Hold on," Grey says with his hands up, "I don't normally like to speak in such black and white terms, because you know, moral ambiguity and shades of grey, no pun intended. But let's think about this practically. Do you pledge loyalty to a shadow program that brainwashed you into submission or do you stop a massive rip in time-space from consuming all reality? It's not what I would call a complicated choice."

Margot's hands tighten around her staff. Briefly, anger flares across her face. Something new replaces it - long hidden pain, surfacing just beyond her model features.

"Zenith has gone too far," Margot says, her voice shaking. "He's fixated on these multigates and what they can do. The directors under him told him he's obsessed, told him how dangerous these experiments have become. But none of us can challenge him. If we do..."

The words sound uncomfortable and awkward out of her mouth. Her first time being honest with him. And perhaps herself.

"You can stop him," Grey says reassuringly.

"You don't get it. I can't do this by myself."

"You're not going to. I promise."

A moment. She nods at him. A truce.

Grey points to the stabilizer at the center of the room. "How does that thing work? It looks like it's been connected to the multigate."

"Once a multigate is open, the stabilizer helps keep it open," Margot explains, "But it can't close the gate."

"What? How did Zenith plan on sealing it back shut?"

Grimly, she looks away. "He didn't."

"Wait, press rewind. Say what?"

"When he said was trying to understand these portals, he didn't mean for their effect on our world. He meant from the inside. He's been trying to open one so he can hitch a ride_ into_ it."

"Ah. So, he's... crazy?"

"He thinks there's something on the other side of the gates. He saw it once when he studied a previous multigate. It was some kind of presence, a person, or an energy, I don't know. But he says it's been calling to him, promising him…"

"Promising what?"

Margot steels herself. "To make Zenith a god."

**To be concluded in…**

**Episode 4: Grey Matter, Finale**


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